Snapshots from a Bar
by Kavery12
Summary: The people from the USS Enterprise and Impala as seen from the perspective of a bartender, who witnesses their ups, their downs and the places in-between.
1. Snapshots from a Bar

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

This one begins right after Nightmare Reborn but the ensuing chapters will just be snapshots (if they end up relating to a previously written story, I'll put up a note).

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><p>The first time I saw them walk into my San Francisco bar, I thought "My god, if that isn't trouble, I don't know what is."<p>

You see, I own a bar. Not a club, not a trendy place that serves tinkly martinis and has grooving beats, a DJ and sexy, beautiful people all pressed up against each other on the dance floor.

Nope, my establishment has a couple of dart boards, two battered pool tables, a real, old-fashioned jukebox and I serve beer (good beer, but beer). The atmosphere's dark and a little smoky and the booths are clean and comfortable but they definitely don't look it. The bar itself is old too, nearly 200 years young, solid oak, dinged, stained and scarred from countless fights and spills. The stools kinda match but not really and they're squeaky if you sit on them wrong. My beer glasses don't match either, picked up wherever whenever and the pretzel dish is communal instead of the fancy new automated dispensing machine.

I like my bar. It's good at listening to the people who walk through the door, if that makes sense and it attracts its own customers – usually older individuals, some weary, some rowdy, most not clean-cut and swell, if you know what I mean.

So that's why when I saw them walk into my bar, I thought "My god, if that isn't trouble, I don't know what is."

The two young leaders were cocky as hell, walking with the swagger that said they owned the world. They were trailed by a group of individuals I recognized from the news.

Shit.

Starfleet. Specifically the ones who had just saved the planet.

It's not that I don't appreciate Starfleet business, I do, but the young officers, man do they like to party, they get into fights, they smash up the bar, it's just a huge hassle.

On the other hand, they had just saved my life and everyone else on the planet. And these particular crews looked rather hounded, probably hunted by media and star-chasers.

So I put on my best neutral bartender face and asked what they'd have without letting on that I knew who they were. They ordered several pitchers of good beer and congregated around my biggest table with a giant bowl of pretzels.

The one captain (I later found out he was Dean Winchester) ambled over to my jukebox and put on AC/DC's Back in Black. I was a little less wary after that – anyone who likes AC/DC can't be that bad.

Then they started with the weirdness.

They didn't get rowdy. They just got, well, strange.

One dude with a mullet challenged the kid who was probably underage, the other kid with a face like blank cardboard and the Asian to a game of darts but instead of standing the normal seven feet away from the target, they decided to play from across the room. And even at that distance, they played better than most of the people in the bar (yours truly included).

The only woman in the group was matching a dark-haired man in medical blue shot for shot and apparently complaining loudly about "overenthusiastic idiots."

The freakishly tall one and the Vulcan were busy discussing the correct ratio of pretzels consumed to alcohol imbibed (who says the words 'consumed' or 'imbibed' at a bar like mine? For that matter, who cares about an alcohol/pretzel ratio? Just eat the damn things!).

Then there were the engineers. How did I know they were engineers? They were slugging back beer like it was Pepsi and hadn't come up for air after two hours of constant booze. That and I didn't understand a single word they were saying (the thick Scottish accent didn't help matters any). They were also stealing pretzel sticks from the tall dude and building a very complicated-looking, impressively tall log cabin (?).

And the captains. Sitting at the bar, sipping their drinks far more slowly than I had expected and just, well, chatting. I was more than a little confused. Usually Starfleet captains were right in the thick of things, drinking, talking loudly, tooting their own horns.

So I thought about this little conundrum as I polished glasses and kept the dart players in beer. Then I had a small epiphany when the bar door swung open and the two captains honed in on the new arrivals (a few regulars) before dismissing them as a threat – being in the spotlight was tiring. Exhausting, probably. And tonight they were taking the chance to sit back in the shadows, unwind and leave their rank behind.

I could respect that.

A few hours later, the bar was pleasantly busy and I almost missed the crews leaving. They tipped well and said goodnight, the whole lot looking more relaxed than when they had come in and I knew my bar had done its job.

That was all I saw of them, but I heard through the grapevine later that they had gotten more than a little crazy and been kicked out of several esteemed establishments (heavy on the sarcasm here, I don't like people who sneer at my little bar because it doesn't sparkle) for excessive behaviour.

Huh. That was odd. I hadn't had a problem.

So when the word went out that the crews of the USS _Impala_ and _Enterprise_ had been banned from most major watering holes in San Francisco by collective (slightly snooty) agreement, I decided what the hell. They seemed like good people and good friends with each other.

I checked the Starfleet schedules and the next time they were due in together, I put a discreet little sign on the door, just in case, because I'm a busybody like that.

_Impala and Enterprise crews welcome_.

To my surprise, they took me up on the offer.

In fact, you could say I've gotten to know them better, that they've become regulars whenever they're in town. Not always the whole contingent (that's a lot of beer and a lot of unique individuals in one smallish space), but I see all of them and now they say hi instead of just nodding.

Of course, it's not a well known tradition and I take pride in keeping my mouth shut when the other clubs complain about the crazy world-saving crews.

In unconscious reward for my silence, I've been privileged with a glimpse into their world – I know that Dr. "Bones" McCoy misses his daughter and is struggling with his ex-wife, that the Harvelle women (don't ever call Jo a girl if you want to continue breathing) are trying to buy the house beside John Winchester's, that Ensign Chekov really is legal (really. I quadruple-checked) and Commander Sulu hates sake (funny story. Maybe I'll tell it some other time).

And I've found that both Lieutenant-Commander Scott and Commander Singer only come alone to the bar and give their learned opinions on my new or exotic beers when their ships are sitting in pieces up at space dock and they're afraid the ships are going to hate them eternally (can ships hate? I know bars do. Scotty and I had this philosophical conversation one night. Evidently ships and bars are more alike than you would first think).

I've been given the honour of becoming Lieutenant Castiel's 'Captain Winchester-advice litmus test,' meaning that if the kid has suspicions about friendly 'advice' given to him by the captain (and his prank-enabling crew), he comes and asks me. I swore I'd always tell the truth, and I always have.

I know that sometimes Captain Jim Kirk wanders into the bar as just Jim Kirk, a young man with the weight of Starfleet on his shoulders and wants to forget that same weight. And I see how Captain Dean Winchester worries constantly about his entire crew, even when they're on shore leave. He likes to air these concerns, let them out to evaporate for a short time. I know Commander Sam Winchester in turn worries almost obsessively about his brother (and rightfully so. Almost every time I see the _Impala_'s captain, he's wearing a new bruise or bandage). I've discovered that Commander Spock is an excellent conversationalist when he is so inclined (he comes to chat when he finds the human world overwhelming).

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The first time Dr. McCoy stumbled in on his own, I knew that if I didn't do something, he'd be flat out swimming in a puddle of booze and his own puke by the end of the night.


	2. Rain and Bourbon

I do not own Supernatural or Star Trek 2009.

This takes place on a random night, with no connection to a pre-existing story.

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><p>I was feeling very cliché that night between the dim light, the hideous weather and my chosen occupation. It was raining cats and dogs around nine pm, thunder occasionally shaking the warm bar. No one was out on the streets; no one would be coming in to the bar. I was expecting to stand there all night, doing my bookwork and washing dishes from that afternoon when the bell tinkled over the door. I glanced up and sighed, not in exasperation but sympathy.<p>

It was one of the people from the _Impala/Enterprise_ bunch, um, the doctor, what was his name, McCoy, Dr. McCoy. And he looked like a drowned rat, water sluicing off his heavy raincoat, his hair plastered to his head, his expression matching the weather. He sluggishly yanked off his coat as if it had somehow mortally offended him and hung it on a hook, stumping up to the bar in a funk.

I silently poured a glass of bourbon and set it in front of him. Don't ask me how I knew. Bartenders get an eye for these things and it was obvious to me that Dr. McCoy would want bourbon.

I was right – he threw it back in one shot and slammed the glass down.

I filled it.

We repeated the little game twice more and then I put the alcohol away.

He glared at me and I gave a one-shouldered shrug with a rueful grin.

"Fuck, I want to get drunk so give me more," he growled in an impressive Georgia accent. I shook my head firmly.

"That's not what the bourbon or I are here for."

He glared again and while it was a heavy, angry expression, it lacked the weight of the righteous, which he was clearly used to wielding. I on the other hand, could shrug the scary scowl away with that same righteousness. Dr. McCoy may think he wanted to get plastered, but that wasn't really why he was here alone on a night so awful I was considering sleeping in the back instead of walking home.

I waited. They always break.

Sure enough, he started muttering about a witch of a woman and why the hell had he even thought about marrying her and just wanted to see Jojo on her birthday and I didn't tune in entirely until he looked up.

"You got kids?"

I shook my head.

"Good. Don't. The little suckers grab your heart and never give it back, which isn't a problem until your wife turns into the Wicked Witch of the West with no explanation. She divorces you, takes your money, kicks you out on your ass and gets the kid because she's the 'homemaker.' And because the kid has your heart and separation from her hurts like hell, you go do stupid things like join Starfleet, which operates in space." He said the final word with the kind of dread most people reserve for the seventh ring of hell.

I hummed in rapport.

"And _then_ you figure you'll join Starfleet, skip through the Academy, get assigned to some planet and run a little clinic in the boondocks (thus mostly avoiding space), come back to Earth on holidays and birthdays, work until you drop dead and it'll all be good, right? But _no_, you pick up some blond-haired blue-eyed wunderkind who can't get along without you because he thinks he's freaking invincible and doesn't believe in god-damned no-win situations."

He thumped a fist on the bar. "It wasn't really a problem until we saved the world. I got famous, Jocelyn didn't. Now it's like a bee in her bonnet and the media's wondering why she's not still married to the great heroic me which pisses her off because she wants everyone else to see I'm a pathetic workaholic who likes bourbon too much." McCoy laughed sadly.

"You know what the kicker is? She told some reporter that I drank like a fish. Which I don't, usually. And the reporter said it gave me _character_." He poked at the empty glass. "In retaliation, Jocelyn's being a straight-laced miser about the time I get to spend with Jojo."

Like all good fathers, he had The Picture. McCoy flipped his wallet open and showed me an old-fashioned paper photo of a really cute pig-tailed eight year old with McCoy's dark hair and a sparkling pair of green eyes in a red t-shirt and blue denim overalls. She was waving enthusiastically over the railing of a tree-house set up in a big Georgia peach tree. "She's pretty, looks like fun," I said appreciatively.

"She's a sweetheart is what she is," McCoy said proudly. "She wants to be an astronomer. Her mom's having fits over that, says that her only daughter ain't gonna be some deadbeat scientist." He sniffed disapprovingly. "Joce wants her to be a lawyer. She's eight! I said let her be whatever she wants. Jojo agreed, which only pissed the ex off more. Today's the big day and I'm not there," he cycled back mournfully to the reason he was sitting in my bar instead of chasing after his beloved daughter.

"Birthday?" I guessed.

McCoy shrugged.

Yep. Bingo.

"Jim and Dean were gonna bust her out and steal her away from Joce for the night."

I blinked. It was a generous offer but probably wouldn't go over all that well with the authorities.

He laughed at my expression. "That look right there's pretty much what I thought too. I want to see her again sometime this century. And hell, missing one birthday is losing a battle, not the war, right?" McCoy swallowed hard and I threw a splash of bourbon into the glass – not too much, just so he would have something to focus on, to regain his control.

This Jocelyn person? Not going to end up one of my favourite individuals. Bartenders aren't supposed to take sides. We're just supposed to listen. But damn it, I'm a softie at heart and this man was clearly in pain. He adored his daughter.

On that note, where the hell was his crew? What were they thinking, letting him out in the pouring rain with his depressed state of mind?

"And stupid Jim, getting his foot busted," McCoy continued.

Ah, there they were.

"I didn't tell anyone else because they'd get all hot under the collar and while the sympathy's great," he shrugged, "they'll worry for days afterwards and I just want to forget that I missed my little girl's ninth birthday. Jim's the only one who knows, but he's drugged to the gills while Ellen puts his foot back together. It wasn't even on an away mission – he was messing around the _Impala_'s engine room with Dean and they dropped a grav-lift on his foot."

McCoy snorted in disdain, but I caught the worry in his eyes. Jim Kirk must really be something to get this tough, pragmatic man tied up in knots.

I poured him another glass and he grinned cheekily at me. "Told ya I wanted to get drunk."

He sipped at it this time and was halfway through the bourbon when the door banged open, allowing a torrent of rain, wind and thunder to roar into the bar. I had to squelch down an astonished expression.

A very wet, medical scrub-clad Jim Kirk hobbled into the bar, dripping water everywhere, his cast thumping emphatically against my worn wooden floor and his hospital-issue sandal squelching with every step.

"Jim, what the hell?" McCoy sputtered, setting his drink down.

The captain parked himself on the next stool over and nodded to me. I obligingly poured him a glass and he sipped happily at the nice vintage. I silently handed him the big clean blanket I keep under the bar for those who pass out on the floor. He grinned and accepted wordlessly.

"Hey Bones, how's it going?" Kirk began, then paused. "Wait, why aren't you totally drunk yet?"

McCoy nodded to me. "She's a great listener."

Kirk eyed me speculatively, evaluating. I stood quietly, polishing an already-spotless glass. Evidently I passed the test, because Kirk relaxed and slumped against the bar. "Bones, my foot hurts," he complained.

McCoy eyed his captain with an evaluating look. "I don't doubt it. And did you get permission to break out of the infirmary?" Kirk gulped back the rest of his glass, coughing slightly and grinning toothily, shrugging. McCoy rolled his eyes and sipped again. "So no. Ellen's going to have your head."

"Not if I'm with _you_," Kirk said winningly.

McCoy snorted and tapped his glass. I filled it, watching the interaction with interest.

"Hey, I was thinking," Kirk remarked slowly a minute later.

"Oh shit, take cover," McCoy shot back dryly, eyebrows raised in mock-surprise.

"No, seriously Bones, I realized we missed the _Enterprise_'s birthday."

McCoy and I stared at him like he was crazy. "Assuming the _Enterprise_ has a birthday," McCoy drawled, "why should we care?"

Kirk slapped down a sopping piece of plasti-paper, the ink so waterlogged it was almost running. "Look. _Enterprise_'s commission date is in a week. We should have a birthday party! And if we get Pike to invite all our families," Kirk sat back on the stool with a fat cat smirk, "I'm pretty sure Jocelyn can't refuse without looking like a total bitch. Additionally, she won't want to refuse because it's coming from _Admiral_ Pike. She likes important people, right?"

I snickered. I couldn't help it. Kirk was extremely satisfied with this glorious plan as he dripped into an enormous puddle on the floor, cast propped on the foot-ring of McCoy's stool, hair squashed flat in areas and standing on end in others. "See, even she thinks it's a good idea!" Kirk pointed out. "I'll get Ellen to make cake," he wheedled.

Apparently that was a good motivator, because McCoy perked up. "Lemon chiffon?" he asked hopefully.

"Damn straight."

They hobbled out an hour or so later, Kirk wearing one of the disposable ponchos I kept under the bar beside the blanket. McCoy thanked me for the bourbon as he went out the door and I smiled, inviting him back any time. I meant it, too.

I was tickled pink to receive an invitation to the _Enterprise_'s first birthday party three days later.

The ship having a birthday bash?

Of course I went.


	3. Glass Half Full

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

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><p>One of the unique, perspective-altering aspects of being a bartender is quite simple: even if your day's gone to shit, you're pretty much guaranteed to serve someone whose day is even worse than yours.<p>

I chose to let this little quirk turn me into an optimist. I'd seen way too many sour old bartenders who didn't give a damn anymore because they had stopped caring. Even if my day was freaking awful, chances were I could help that very depressed/frustrated/sad/angry person just a little bit further away from their woes.

This charming little theory was being sorely tested tonight.

I'd woken up on the wrong side of the bed, my hot water had conked out, the milk was sour, my hovercar broke down, my sister called and demanded I spend the weekend serving alcohol at her swank party for free and the bills for both my personal life and the bar had arrived all at once. Not to mention I had a bitch of a cold and just wanted to crawl back into bed for a week.

So I had a screaming match with my sister, dropped the car off, bought lunch on my way to the bar and sniffled my way through opening. I managed to croak a greeting to the regulars and didn't sneeze in the beer or anything, but I wasn't feeling great at all.

Then the door jingled and Sam Winchester walked in.

Well shit.

I'd had a fantastic day in comparison if the slump of his shoulders was anything to go by. Mentally wracking my news knowledge, I came up dry on anything about Winchesters, the _Impala_ or the world ending (again) as I poured Sam his favourite beer and set it in front of him.

A morose nod was all I got instead of his usual cheery greeting and my inner alarm bells went off. Where was his brother, crew or friends?

Flicking a peanut shell at my best regular and jerking a subtle thumb towards Sam, I sidled down the bar. Tom raised a knowing eyebrow and nodded. He would serve anyone who wanted a drink and he loved the chance to play bartender. I'd let him keep the tips and this way his wife didn't know how he could afford an extra lottery ticket, which would drive her nuts.

Leaning up against the bar with a set of dirty dishes and trying not to snuffle unattractively through my clogged nose (I'm just a bartender but I'm a woman too!), I waited patiently.

The beer disappeared disturbingly quickly and he waved for more.

I eyed him speculatively. For all his size, I had learned quickly that Sam Winchester was a surprisingly light-weight drunk. He glared at me and I filled the glass, scrutinizing the man as I did so.

No bruises, no bandages, he was sitting relaxed. He just looked like life had gleefully chewed up his spirit, spat it out and danced a merry hornpipe on the carcass.

"Stupid brother," he grumbled, slurring a bit already. He'd been drinking prior to getting here. "Stupid freaking Dean, all heroic and shit. He worries about us, about all of us," Sam gestured widely, "but never stops to think about what happens to those same people if he ends up dead."

My heart tried to jump into my throat, but I quickly realized that if Dean was in any trouble at all, Sam wouldn't be here talking to the bartender. Humming softly and pouring Sam another beer, I waited again.

"Oh, he's fine tonight," Sam growled, "Out on the town with Jim, the two of them celebrating their latest _insane_ victory. But who's to say how long this, this, I don't know if I can even call it luck, skill, gambling, whatever, will last. Someday, somehow, one of their crazy plans is going to have the worst possible ending and while he'll make damn sure the greater masses don't pay for it, he'll do so by paying the price himself because he's the damn captain and he's the only one allowed to take risks." I was impressed that Sam had managed such a long sentence without a single slip of drunkenness, but it seemed to run its course as the man swayed a bit and pointed a finger at me, "I-I'm not afraid of failing Starfleet or ev-everybody else. I'm damn good at what I do. I'm afraid that one day my brother's going to end up dead because I wasn't enough to haul his ass out of the fire."

I blew my nose and washed my hands. Sympathy flashed across his face and Sam handed me a small bottle of pills. "Ellen's home remedy. It'll clear you up in a few hours flat."

Just for that, I poured him a shot of my finest whiskey.

"Stupid brother."

I smiled in sympathy as Sam forlornly shuffled his shot glass and beer mug around each other like two orbiting moons. I wished I could say I fully understood, but I didn't. My experience with siblings had so far been every average girl's relationship with her sister – we knew we loved each other in that vague sort of familial way but we fought a lot and she was demanding and I wasn't interested in her rich friends so do I know if my sister would die for me? Not really and I honestly wouldn't stake my life on her sense of sibling responsibility.

"Stupid brother, stupid me," he continued. "Did you know we ran into another pair of Winchesters in an alternate reality?"

I dropped all my bartending manners and stared in amazement. They had met _themselves_? Holy shit, maybe I'd gone into the wrong profession!

Sam laughed loosely at my incredulous expression. "Yeah, that's what we thought too. And did you know, Dean and I were almost exactly the same. Same stupid drive to protect each other, same penchant for derring-do. Who the fuck says derring-do?"

Clearly, inebriated Winchesters worried about their siblings said things like derring-do. I was considering palming his communicator and calling his brother because Sam wasn't moving out of his self-imposed gloom at all.

"Wouldn't trade it for the world though," Sam concluded all on his own and I leaned in to listen as he focused on me. "Wouldn't trade any of it for an apple pie life with a white picket fence."

I smirked in success. He'd hauled himself out of the funk with two incomplete sentences. I topped off the shot glass as Sam's reward for arriving at the right conclusion and he shared that smirk. "You know I wouldn't trade it, don't you?" he asked and I shrugged. "I just wish my brother would stop – " and his communicator chirped. Listening carefully, his face darkened and I pulled away his glasses, pretty sure he'd be barrelling out of here in a minute as he half-rose to his feet.

"Dean did _what_?" Sam squawked and an apologetic voice on the other end warbled away for a minute. "Kirk did _what_?" There was a pause. "You know, tonight, I just don't give a shit." He slammed back down onto the bar stool. "Tell them I'll be by to get them in the morning. If they run into someone who tattles to the Admirals, maybe they won't act like retards next shore leave. Winchester out." He snapped the communicator shut with an annoyed flick.

I, of course, had another beer waiting and instead of sucking it back like a depressed person, he sipped at the drink and glared at the innocent communicator. "Stupid, _stupid_ brother," he griped and this time it was the full-out bitch of an exasperated little brother, not the depressed musings of a weary man. "He and Kirk went and picked a bar fight with Cartwright's golden captain and now half of my command crew is in the brig alongside them for brawling. Ash managed to call Castiel, but Cas doesn't have the rank needed to bust out a captain. I on the other hand," and Sam's fingers drummed the bar, "do, but then I'd have to fill out extra paperwork and Dean would be boasting about how they beat the crap out of their opponents and if they're in the brig, they're not going to end up in more shit. And tomorrow we're going to be facing Cartwright's firing squad for 'inducing inappropriate behaviour in innocent Starfleet personnel' and we all know who gets to play diplomat. So."

I swallowed a huge grin. Laughing at a senior bridge officer sulking like a kid would be rude. Instead I held up a finger and vanished to the back. The bar does have a fully functional kitchen but I don't have the money or clientele to hire a cook. The one thing I offer (and it's not on any menu), is my grandmother's heritage recipe for magic potato wedges (since I can't cook anything else to save my life). I only give out my wedges to people who need them. And tonight seemed appropriate.

Sam stared at the big boat of sheer, steaming, spiced, salty carbohydrate-coma-inducing goodness as I handed him an extra beer.

"You are a goddess among bartenders," he breathed happily and I sat back to watch him enjoy himself. Sure enough, the food combined with good beer and some more sympathetic listening resulted in a far more cheerful commander until the communicator chirped again.

"What?" he barked but was brought up short by a far more frantic warbling voice. "_What_?" Oh, this sounded more serious. "They can't do that!" Sam's face bent into an imposing scowl and I watched as Commander Winchester emerged. "Cas, Cas calm down. You'll do fine. Just hold the course you've set right now. I'll be there in ten minutes. No, they won't be able to do that, especially not when they're being held at Starfleet Command. Yes, I promise. Trust me, one of the degrees after my name happens to include a J.D, I know what I'm talking about, remember?"

J.D? He was a lawyer? A Starfleet lawyer on top of a science officer? Just how damn smart was this dude?

"Be there in ten. Amanda," he asked and I set down the pitcher I was washing. "Can you call me a cab?" I checked the clock. No reputable cab would be out at this hour – they'd all take him on the most circuitous route to squeeze a big fare and it'd be at least a five minute wait for the cab itself to arrive.

"Tom," I called down the bar, "watch the shop. I'm going out for a minute."

Tom was in his element, the garrulous old security officer jabbering away as he poured beer. He glanced over and I nodded towards our agitated Starfleet commander. Immediately catching on that there was trouble in the _Impala_-world, he nodded sharply. "Keep Captain Winchester and his lot around to save the planet, eh?"

I grinned, fishing out my keys. "Come on, Commander Winchester. A cab won't get you there in time but I will."

Sam blinked in astonishment. "You don't have to do that," he protested but I was already stripping off my apron. Jeez, between the _Impala_ and the _Enterprise,_ I was turning into some sort of demented shore leave babysitter and didn't mind the new job at all.

"It's not a problem," I insisted. "This way."

"If you do this," Sam hesitated and I held the kitchen door open, tapping my foot, "you gotta stop calling me Commander Winchester."

"Deal." I led the way out around back and flipped open the garage door. My car (not the busted hovercar, my other car) would definitely make it to Starfleet Command in ten minutes.

The other car was my 1967 jet-black Camaro with white racing stripes and chromed highlights, one of only fifteen or so still in running condition on the planet and I loved her dearly. Sam whistled slowly, impressed and I grinned. "Think we'll make it in time?"

He laughed as I slid into the leather driver's seat and the motor roared to life with a happy, throaty grumble. "This is a _car_," Sam commented in admiration as we peeled out of the garage.

"Yep," I agreed. "Some people buy a house, some people fix up a shuttle, I rebuilt a car with my grandfather. Kinda tricky to find the gasoline these days though."

The car ripped through San Francisco at 1 am in the morning with little heed for speed limits. I figured having a Starfleet commander in the passenger seat would get me out of shit with any cops and hell, this car was meant to _go_.

I screeched to a halt outside of Starfleet Command and slid into a parking spot. "Need me to come in?" I asked. "No cabs run this district at night."

Sam was already staring at the official building. "Uh," he hesitated and I made a split-second decision, hopping out of the car. Maybe I was being a busybody, but he was still working through those beers and why yes, right now I was damn curious. He grinned. "Sure, why not. You can be my sidekick."

Awesome.

We stormed the building and I couldn't help but feel a thrum of wild excitement, something that was sorely missing from my quiet everyday life. And Sam was stalking along with all the unstoppable authority of the _Impala_ herself. This was going to be fun.

Sure enough, he glared, growled and ordered his way politely but firmly through the red tape until I found myself trailing along the brig cells like a little lost duckling, the smell of puke and drunkenness pervasive. "What happened?" I whispered tentatively, hoping I wasn't out of line.

"Cartwright wants to court martial the _Impala_ command crew tonight, specifically Dean, Ash and Jo." I blinked.

"That doesn't sound terribly legal."

"It's not but he could do it as long as he's fast and sneaky. I need you to do something for me but you definitely won't get in trouble for it, I promise."

I straightened my spine and realized Sam hadn't been kidding about those cold pills. I was feeling great. "At your command, sir!"

He grinned. "I will admit, your moral support is comforting. Especially since I know you've got a level head. Okay. Here's how this is going to fly. I need you to take this message and send it directly to Admiral Pike via the official front desk. The entry process is pretty simple but you have to make sure it's done properly and it's done by you, not the secretary, who would undoubtedly shuffle, file and lose that message. You've got my authorization." I scanned the paper quickly, feeling like a spy or secret operative. "And please get it out ASAP." I nodded and headed back down towards the front desk. "Cas!" Sam called down the corridor and a rumpled dark head stuck up from the security station where he was waiting. "Fill me in," Sam ordered as the pilot skittered down the hall at warp 10.

I had just enough time to see Sam scowl before the door slammed shut behind me and I was left to complete my little mission.

It took me all of fifteen minutes to argue my way past the snooty secretary. Waving Commander Winchester's authorization around a lot helped but then I was left sitting alone in the reception room in a cold war of glares with said snooty secretary. I must have waited for at least an hour before the doors swung open and a very battered trio of _Impala_ crew members were herded out by an irritated Sam.

Holy shit. They _had_ been in a bar fight and a bad one. Captain Winchester had a beautiful black eye and was still swiping at a bloody mouth with a Kleenex. Commander Harvelle was limping and sporting skinned knuckles and Lieutenant-Commander Ash was weaving erratically, probably concussed.

And they wouldn't all fit in the car.

Thankfully, we had Sam. "Spock's following us out," he growled and I realized he wasn't irritated, he was _pissed_. "Ash, you and Jo are going to head back to _Enterprise_ with Spock and Sulu. Dean, get your ass outside and into Amanda's car. Clean up the blood first. Amanda, do you mind one more stop?"

I had jumped to my feet before I knew it and nodded. I didn't know when I'd started thinking of these crazy crews as more than regulars (I hadn't known them all that long) but it seemed like they could use all the allies they could get and I liked them, damn it. They were well on their way to being my friends and I never left friends out to dry.

Grabbing a wobbly captain's elbow, I peered at the lip. Just split, but shit, it'd probably need a dermal regenerator or stitches. "Dude, I'm doing this for free, so no blood on the seats," I warned as we headed outside.

"Why, you drive a pretty little sports-hover?" Dean asked woozily with just the faintest hint of car-snobbery.

I shrugged airily. "You tell me," and pointed to the ride.

"Hell." He paused, concussed eyes clearing for a minute. "I swear, there will be no blood on the seats. That's a _car_."

I chuckled. "That's what your brother said."

"Sammy's got no interest in cars, so if he noticed, you know you own a fantastic set of wheels." He managed to squeeze himself into the small rumble seat in the back, slumping into the leather with a tired sigh. "Shit, what was I thinking?"

And I was a bartender once more, listening carefully from the driver's seat.

"I wasn't. I knew he was picking a fight on purpose, but he said stuff, you know? Stuff about Sammy, about Admiral Pike and it just – " Captain Winchester shrugged. "It wasn't right and someone needed to shut him up."

Sam landed into the front seat with a thud, surprising both of us. "You were right to shut him up, Dean. He was being insubordinate. But did you have to do it in a bar fight?"

Dean shrugged. "Didn't have a tricorder or communicator on me with a recorder. It'd be my word against his. And he made me angry."

"Made both of us angry," Captain Kirk pitched in from outside the car. "_Nice_ ride."

Sam crawled out and waited. "I gotta sit in the back?" Captain Kirk whined briefly but a quick glance up at the taller man had him groaning his way into the rumble seat. "Shit. Amanda? This is _your_ car?"

I flashed a smile in the rear-view mirror. "Yep. No blood on the seats, gents."

"Yes ma'am."

"Where are we off to?" I asked as Sam slouched in the front seat.

"Admiralty, and then you can go home. We'll be there all night." I tried not to protest but my disappointment must have shown because Sam shrugged and pulled a strained smile. "Someone will drop by and fill you in on the details before we're exiled again to the far corners of the galaxy. But I don't want to leave you sitting outside while we get skinned alive by the Admiralty."

With a shrug, I floored it again, to the obvious excitement of the two captains in the back seat. "Listen to her purr," Captain Winchester crowed as Captain Kirk jostled forward to lean over the front seat.

"Faster, faster!"

I rolled my eyes and stepped on the gas as Sam rolled down a window to let in the cool night air.

It had been the craziest day ever – and the most excitement I'd had in years.

Maybe I should have joined Starfleet.

* * *

><p>This is as far as Amanda goes (she has a name now!), but have no fear – there will be a corresponding story from the boys' POV, fight included. Check out <em>Brothers' Honour.<em>


	4. Meet the 'Rents

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

* * *

><p>It's a rare night when there's a fight in my bar. I try to run a quiet joint and most days I succeed because I have good regulars who know I don't really have the money or the traffic to justify a bouncer.<p>

So when one of my best regulars, one Captain Jim Kirk, rattles into my bar like an out of control shopping cart with a squeaky wheel just spoiling for a fight, I figure there's something seriously wrong.

I waved off everyone else, who was quite happy to keep their heads down and let me handle it. Don't get me wrong, my regulars would step up if I was in real trouble. But Jim Kirk's not real trouble (to me anyway) and most of my regulars are older, past their prime. Getting into a bar brawl with a scrappy front-line Starfleet captain isn't high on their to-do list (bucket list, maybe).

Already drunk, Kirk weaved against the bar. I silently set down a big tumbler of whiskey and watched in concern as he tossed it back immediately and without pausing. Jim Kirk was a hell-raiser, not an alcoholic and this wasn't normal. As was becoming the norm whenever a morose _Enterprise_ or _Impala_ crew member wandered in, I checked my memory for any news of said ships meeting up with doom, gloom or disaster.

I came up zilch. Which was good, really, but it also meant dragging answers out of Kirk, who could and would clam up tighter than little old Mrs. Reno across the street, who'd lived through WWIII and hoarded credits, food and information like WWIV was arriving tomorrow.

And he was already half-slumped over, mostly plastered and glaring at Tom, who was doing his level best to ignore Kirk. I rolled my lips together in consternation and made an executive decision.

I picked up my old-fashioned phone and called Spock.

"Spock."

"Hi Spock, it's Amanda. Have you lost someone?"

"You are referring to the captain." There was a barely tangible thread of hope in his voice.

"Yep." I eyed a lolling Kirk carefully. "Can I ask what's going on?"

There was muttering in the background and the sharp squawk of someone yelping. Dr. McCoy, probably.

"I believe Captain Kirk had an unfortunate encounter with a certain member of his immediate family. We had just been made aware that the meeting had gone poorly and began looking for Captain Kirk when you called. If you would keep Captain Kirk with you, I will arrive within 8.6 minutes."

"Gotcha."

Spock hung up with a sharp click and I turned to find a bright blue glare pinning me in place.

"You called Spock."

I quietly poured him another glass. "I did."

He seemed caught between making a run for the door, throwing the whiskey at me or just slugging it back.

When I refused to cower under his scowl, he inhaled the drink and slammed the glass down on the bar like a challenge.

"Is this the part where I tell you my sob story?" he demanded.

"I don't know," I replied calmly, putting the cap back on the whiskey bottle and handing him a beer instead.

"If we were in a movie, it would be." Kirk clenched his fists and stared unseeingly at the wood grain under his whiskey glass. Definitely not ready to talk to anyone about it, let alone a bartender.

"We aren't in a movie and you're definitely not a movie star."

"Should I be insulted?" he asked with a humourless smile.

I shrugged and started washing glasses.

"I'm not talking to you or anybody else."

I hummed in agreement.

"Stop agreeing with me."

I swallowed an inappropriate grin. "Okay."

Kirk glared at me again but the set of his shoulders loosened just that little bit. "What did I just say?"

The door to the bar swung open and I didn't have to look in Spock's direction, setting on the kettle for his favourite Vulcan tea (if I didn't look, I could avoid his attempts to pay me for the tea. Stubborn Vulcan knew how much the real stuff cost me these days).

"Spock's here, isn't he?" Kirk asked inanely.

"Who else comes to a bar to drink tea?" I replied, keeping my amusement gentle.

Spock sat down, nodding hello.

Two minutes later, the width of the bar had grown enormously. It seemed a thousand miles wide as the captain and first officer sat silently shoulder to shoulder, a few centimetres apart on their bar stools.

I set the pot of tea down and included two handle-less ceramic cups even though the chances of Kirk actually drinking the potent and spicy stuff were about as good as him dressing in drag and dancing the hula. Spock gave me another nod and then I made myself scarce despite the curiosity practically roiling under my skin.

Spock sipped his tea.

Kirk nursed his beer.

I refilled as necessary.

Rinse, repeat. Just like that, for the better part of two hours.

Finally I heard the low mutter of Kirk's voice and noted the incline of Spock's head. Things were starting to look up and I was feeling hopeful when the door to the bar slid open, clearly under the wavering influence of someone very, very inebriated. The newcomer was an older man and happily plopped down to souse himself in lousy, cheap booze. I was busy making sure he didn't drown in his alcohol, so I missed the door opening yet again.

All I heard was the thunderous roar of Jim Kirk and the crack of fist on bone.

A burly, beer-bellied man was laid out flat on his back, holding his jaw like it was made of glass as Jim Kirk loomed over him like Atlas himself.

To my surprise, instead of immediately holding his captain back, Spock sat still on the chair, coiled up like a pissed rattler and I thought "Shit, I'm going to be scrubbing blood out of the floor if they don't get arrested for murder and my bar turns into a crime scene."

It seemed like a good time to start praying for a miracle, so I did.

I got my miracle – the door to the bar opened again and thank God in heaven above (no sarcasm involved), the Winchester brothers filled the doorway.

"What the?" Dean began as the guy Kirk hit scuttled backwards on the floor. "Jim?" he asked in a careful "Do I need to kill someone?" tone of voice.

"Hey Dean," Kirk replied distractedly. I stared pleadingly at Sam who smiled reassuringly and inserted himself into the picture with his hands held up and his usual harmless air.

"So what's going on here?" Sam asked quietly, injecting just a little more normalcy into a charged situation.

"Everyone, meet Frank. Frank, meet everyone," Kirk said sarcastically, poison oozing from every syllable. Spock still hadn't relaxed and the man on the floor stayed there, showing a surprising amount of sense for someone who had voluntarily pissed off Jim Kirk. Whatever this guy had done to Kirk, it was big and I was pretty sure that if I knew what he'd done, the phaser under the bar might be making an appearance.

"Hi Frank. What are we going to do with Frank?" Dean asked pleasantly, shuffling into a loose, ready stance, prepared for anything (just not in my bar, please!).

Kirk was still simmering and for a moment I was afraid I might need that phaser set on stun for a friend instead of the jackass on the floor. "Nothing. Throw him out."

"Gladly," Sam volunteered and collared Frank like he was a nasty bit of slime fished out of the gutter. It was the work of a minute for Sam to pitch Frank out the door like a sack of potatoes and return, dusting his hands off with relish. By then I had everyone's drinks laid out and was busy but not busy with dishes again, this time standing close enough to eavesdrop. I wanted to know if I needed to keep the phaser ready should Frank return.

"So?" Dean asked quietly.

Kirk shrugged.

The Winchesters waited, Sam more patiently than Dean, who played with my little menu folders like they were Matchbox cars.

"My mom married that asshole when I was four." Kirk's voice was low and hurt.

Sam's face took on that painfully understanding cast and Dean's menu-cars screeched to a halt. Spock twitched, actually twitched in his seat and I felt a sudden compulsive need to check my phaser. On Frank, preferably. No one gets to make my friend sound that depressed without repercussions.

"Shit," Dean sighed, breaking the tension and I slid more drinks down the bar.

"Amen," Kirk half-laughed and it was a broken sound.

That was when I decided potato wedges were in order and brought out four big bowls, having used up all the potatoes in my kitchen to make enough for everyone. Spock stared at the concoction like it was some sort of alien life form and quickly passed the wedge boat down the bar. I wrinkled my nose at him in an amused scowl, silently daring him to try just one.

Three curious heads swivelled to watch as Spock carefully snagged the bowl and dragged it back in front of him, picking out a middling-sized wedge with finicky finesse. I had to swallow a giggle as the three other friends stared fixedly while Spock sampled the wedge, chewing with thorough, bland movements.

I knew what the result would be. No one had ever managed to scorn my gramma's wedges after tasting them. But without the inside scoop, it must be torturous to watch Spock decide if he was going to keep the potatoes or hand them over to the two bottomless pits pretending to be captains.

"Hey Spock, you don't have to eat those. Dean and I can handle it for you, you know," Kirk volunteered when Spock gazed contemplatively at the rest of the wedges.

To my immense satisfaction and amusement, Spock's hand clamped down firmly on the fingers inching towards his potato wedges. "That will not be necessary, Jim." Kirk's fingers wiggled just a little bit more under the steely grip. Spock clearly wasn't cutting off circulation or anything but Kirk sure as hell wasn't getting anywhere near those wedges.

"You sure, Spock?"

"I am, as you say, positive."

There was a muttered "damn," before Kirk turned back to his own food as Dean tried to pull a fast one on Sam's food, resulting in brotherly bickering and I refilled everyone's drinks.

By the time the wedges vanished, the four Starfleet officers were busy hashing out the details of some failed mission over in the Gamma quadrant where some idiot captain had danced too close to a black hole in an attempt to shave a few more hours off his courier route and had to pull a repeat _Enterprise_ by ditching the warp cores. Of course, the captain was in considerably more trouble than _Enterprise_ had been. After all, _he_ hadn't saved Earth in the process of losing said warp cores.

Why yes, I'm rather proud of my two favourite Starfleet ships. Sue me.

Anyway, things were starting to look up. Kirk and Spock said good night shortly after that, as they were taking off for the Delta quadrant tomorrow afternoon and the Winchesters were tossing back their last beers when I spotted Frank through the darkened bar window.

Evidently my displeasure showed on my face because Dean spun around on his bar stool and scowled. "Jackass. Wonder why he's still lurking around here?"

"Don't know but he's not welcome in my bar," I said darkly, strangling the pestle I used to crush mint.

Sam loosened up as soon as he saw my white knuckled grip. "Easy girl, down," he chuckled and I set the pestle down, reaching under the bar for the phaser. "Seriously," Sam reiterated in a reassuringly strong manner, "we got this."

I took a deep breath and admitted to myself that Dean and Sam were more than capable of laying a beat down on this douche. I'd relegate myself to the body-hiding detail. Maybe poke him a few times with a really pointy stick in the process.

And Frank didn't come into the bar. Maybe he felt the evil intent seeping out from under the door.

"Still doesn't explain why the hell he came to 'Frisco," Dean muttered, clearly thinking along the same lines as Sam and I. "Kirk's not telling us the whole story. Again."

Again? What again?

The worst part about this whole thing with these two crews, I decided, was that as the bartender I didn't have any right to pry further even if I did have the best of intentions. So I bit my tongue and eyed the windows and waved off the Winchesters when they left an hour later.

Being the bartender for these two crews was going to be the death of me.

_Pretty sure there's an explanatory story in there somewhere, so no one shoot the author. I'll admit that I like writing this choppy, Amanda-view. She doesn't get to see everything and has no right to demand more. All she can do is put a band-aid on the ouch, for lack of a better expression. If I were mean-spirited person, I would never explain it ever and leave us all dangling from Amanda's POV._

_Because I'm not a mean-spirited person, the whole story is over in _Fathers, Friends and Faith.


	5. An Enterprise Bartender

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

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><p>I was jolted out of sleep sometime around noon by the shrill screeching of my very annoying comm. It has to be really freaking noisy or I sleep right through it, but that same noise means that every time it actually wakes me up, I answer the comm in a damn pissy mood.<p>

"What?" I growled very uncharitably.

"Amanda Mackenzie?" an unfamiliar male baritone asked.

"Yeah?"

"You own the bar down the street?"

I groggily sat up, pushing back my tangle of blankets and peering through my blinds at the brilliant sunshine. "That's me."

"This is the fire marshal's office."

That was how my life fell apart.

* * *

><p>Some run of the mill serial arsonist took it upon himself to thoroughly torch my poor little bar. The place had gone up in smoke, gone in under an hour courtesy of an accelerant and the old-fashioned construction, layers and layers of varnish I and bartenders before me had brushed protectively over the bar, tables and floor igniting like pitch. There was nothing left. The buildings on either side weren't heritage sites and had fire prevention installed, smoke stains easily scrubbed from their insolent, fire-resistant walls. But my bar was gone. Not even the shell of good times remained.<p>

When I did some investigating, I realized my opportunistic sister had cut me out of the insurance months ago. Like a fool, I had kept on paying the premiums, putting money straight into her pocket. Now instead of being a middling-earner with my own little business, I was out of a job and had no references either. I had started running the bar straight out of my apprenticeship and had never worked under someone else.

Leave all that alone, my bar was gone. My bar, with its pretzels, good beer and regulars all huddled around tables, waving cheerily to me. No more Starfleet insanity spilling in at all hours to talk to the bartender. I'd have to leave them all behind, serve cheap martinis in some soulless hotel bar to make ends meet.

It was an awful thought.

I was huddled in front of the ruins, feeling like someone had cut out some vital organ and left me raw to the rest of the world when a broad, warm hand landed on my shoulder and I squeaked in surprise.

"Damn shame," a rough voice said behind me. "We came as soon as we heard." A big arm slung itself around my shoulders as Sam Winchester caught me in a one-sided sort-of-hug while Dean scowled at the ruins. The entire _Impala_ command crew dressed in street clothes had showed up, Jo poking around the bar, looking for something (what, I didn't know), Ash stuffing hands awkwardly into his pockets as Castiel looked rather adorably lost for a moment before copying his social skills mentor and jamming his hands into the pocket of his over-sized hoodie.

"Sorry to see it," Ellen sympathized, a quick squeeze of my arm telling me everything she needed to in an instant. Bobby squared up the ruins with an experienced eye.

"Think we can start putting her back up this weekend if you like," he said gruffly. The suggestion seemed to make just about everyone more relaxed – this was a crew of doers, people who didn't deal well with inactivity. If I let them, they'd rebuild the whole damned bar exactly the way it was, come hell or high water.

And that was when the tears spilled over, the whole story choked out in a few words.

The _Impala_ crew stiffened around me and I realized with an abrupt jolt that they were already considering me one of their own. "Ellen, take Amanda back to the _Impala_. Sam, you and Ash see what you can find out about the insurance thing. Cas, Bobby and Jo take a look into the arsonist and see if Amanda's apartment is in danger. I'm going to comm_ Enterprise_."

And suddenly I was whisked away, caught in a whirlwind of people who really shouldn't care this much about a simple bartender who listened to them whenever they came into port. Ellen had me tucked away in a warm corner of the infirmary with a mug of steaming hot chocolate before I could blink, _Impala _bridge members drifting by with updates every now and then.

To my amusement and Sam's ire, he was thoroughly stalled out by my sister's little scam. She'd set it up so that it was technically legal and there wasn't a damn thing the very clever Winchester could do about it. He tried to take the failure personally but I refused to let him until we reached a compromise – he wouldn't quit but failure was indeed acceptable if the solution meant something less than legal (a necessary clause after Ash had volunteered to invisibly wipe the money from my sister's account and eliminate all evidence of her scam) but honestly, the effort both Sam and Ash would put into that investigation just wasn't worth it.

The insurance money would pay for a brand new bar in steel and plastic. There would never be enough money to rebuild the bar out of alcohol-soaked wood, to lay down hardwood floors and put in a stone fireplace.

The bar was gone.

They caught the arsonist. The fire marshal was very surprised to discover a Starfleet command crew working with his investigation, but they were very helpful, efficient and caught the man within forty-eight hours so he really couldn't complain.

It still didn't help me out all that much in terms of a job. I looked into several positions but none of them really caught my eye. I ghosted around town, followed by at least one crew member. Castiel was surprisingly the best company. He didn't know what to do, so he listened. Honestly, he would have made an excellent bartender – very sympathetic, good-hearted and a very intense focus on whatever it was he was doing.

* * *

><p>I was sitting at my kitchen table one fine morning, ignoring the bar-shaped hole in my heart and trying to pick between an uptown bartending job for one of my detested rivals and an overly peppy job on a cruise ship when a knock on my door had me looking up.<p>

Captain Kirk beamed at me through my screen door dressed in civvies, no hint of the Starfleet captain about him. "Can I come in?"

I gestured feebly in surprise. "Sure. Aren't you supposed to be out somewhere past Starbase 5?"

"Well you see," he came in and shucked his shoes at the door, "a rather urgent situation on my ship needed remedying." Kirk parked himself at my table and I nodded companionably at the carafe of coffee. "Don't mind if I do," he replied and poured himself a steaming mug and sipped at it scalding black.

"An urgent situation?" I reminded him.

"Yep. Starfleet's been pestering me to fill this one position on the ship for absolute ages but you know, all the Starfleet candidates, they're so stiff and professional, not good at all for the _Enterprise_." Kirk sighed heavily and I listened carefully. The bar may be gone, but I was still a bartender.

"What are you going to do?"

His eyes took on a merry twinkle and he replied mysteriously, "I had to come all the way back to Earth to pick up the perfect candidate for the job."

Oh. Well, that was good. He'd be out of here tonight, then wouldn't he? And I'd be at a hated new job within a few days. Hopefully I could keep up with both crews via the news but it wouldn't be the same.

Kirk slapped a paper down on the table, startling me out of my morose thoughts. "So. Sign on the dotted line?"

"What?"

"Weren't you listening? Geez, some bartender you are," he teased.

I shook my head free of cobwebs and refocused. "Sorry, repeat that last bit?"

"I said, would you take the job?"

Eh?

Job?

Kirk leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously on two back legs. "I need a bartender on the _Enterprise_. Want the job?"

At that point, I was pretty sure my brain had short-circuited.

"No?" Kirk asked, crestfallen and pulling the paper back towards him, chair landing on the floor with a thump.

My hand slammed down on the sheet and false disappointment evaporated off the sneaky captain's face. He sat there grinning like a loon as I scanned the document carefully. I was contracted to a two year stint on the _Enterprise_ with possibility of renewal. A mandatory crash-course in Starfleet regulations and protocol would see me joining the ship in three weeks.

I skipped through the nitty-gritty details, picked up my Bugs Bunny pen and scrawled a loopy signature across the bottom of the contract.

Captain Kirk stuck out a friendly hand. "Welcome to the crew of the _Enterprise,_ Amanda Mackenzie."

* * *

><p>Three weeks later, I stood on a transporter pad for the first time in my life, feeling decidedly alone. It was an unnerving experience for a 'Frisco girl who had never travelled out of state. I had taken a shuttle from Earth up to the <em>Los Angeles<em>, who then obligingly dropped me off at Starbase 5 (friendly crew, reminded me of the_ Impala _or _Enterprise_).

_Enterprise_ came in three hours later, soaring past the view screen like a great white swan, glowing in the light of the star base. She was much, much bigger in real life than the jumbo plasma screens in 'Frisco's streets had depicted her. Of course, I had known this before. I knew that she was enormous but this, this was concrete proof that _Enterprise _was a world all her own.

Additionally, she was a lot prettier than the screens said and stronger, somehow friendlier.

Thus I stood on the transporter pad with my little messenger bag, my crate of belongings down in cargo transport with the rest of the medical supplies Dr. McCoy had requisitioned.

I swirled back into existence a mere second later, blinking at the sight before me. "Ah, lassie! Welcome tae _Enterprise_!" Mr. Scott burred happily. "Ah've got a few wee suggestions for the menu, if ye wouldn't mind," he chattered as I stepped off the pad. _Enterprise_ was a warm, dry environment and despite the steel all around me, surprisingly welcoming.

"Ah, Capt'n said he'd be down in a minute to show ye about. Ah've got to get back to work. This lot can't be without me for a bare minute without getting my great lady all in a muck," Scotty finished.

"The _Enterprise_ is always in a muck according to you, Scotty," Captain Kirk shot back cheerfully, striding into the transporter room with a business-like (captain-like) air. "Amanda, welcome aboard."

"_Captain, incoming message from the _Impala_."_ Uhura's voice issued from somewhere above my head and Kirk scowled. "All right, patch it through."

"_Kirk, you jackass, did you really hire Amanda to the _Enterprise_ as a bartender?" _a highly irritated Dean demanded as Kirk smirked, very satisfied with himself as I swallowed a snort of amusement and disbelief.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

"_What?"_

"Hi Dean," I ventured, looking around for the microphone.

"_Kirk, if she ends up in trouble even _once_, I swear I'll convince Pike to transfer her contract to the _Impala_." _

"Oh, because _your_ ship is so much safer!"

"_Like I said, Kirk, you were warned."_

"Listen here, dumbass," and I was afraid that Kirk would start breathing fire when I spotted an excited Chekov waving at me. Scuttling away from the incensed captain, I ducked around the corner.

"Amanda, velcome to _Enterprise_! Come, I show you de bar. Keptin vill be busy vith Keptin Vinchester for some time." Chekov tugged me through a dizzying set of corridors before we tumbled into a warm, wide room with a great big view screen of the world outside.

Thick carpet covered the floor; little round tables with friendly cushy chairs dotted the room. Potted plants broke up the room, creating just enough privacy to keep customers from irritating each other. A few pool tables sat in the back corner beside a Ping Pong table. But the crowning jewel was the bar, a long dark mahogany affair trimmed in fine silver with matching stools. I crossed the room and ran a hand along the bar.

This was a close cousin of my bar, a real wooden affair trimmed in durable stainless steel with worn shelves on my side of things, a modern sonic sink set into the back as the only concession to modernity. Behind me was a rather interesting set of shelves, clear glass latching doors keeping bottles in should the ship decide to shake violently.

I took up position behind the bar, letting my bag drop to the floor.

It felt like coming home and that was when I knew this would work.

I could be the _Enterprise_'s bartender.


	6. Intruders, Action and Reaction

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

* * *

><p>I would love to say I immediately fit into life on the <em>Enterprise<em>, but that would be a fib of rather epic proportions. Life on a star ship is a unique experience and for the first three weeks I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a hamster in a very large tin can, despite all the amenities and the fact that I really, truly wanted to like living on a star ship.

It's claustrophobic. Sterile, at times. Metal everywhere. Ceilings everywhere, even in the rec room with the great big open view screen in the roof. Noise – a star ship is always humming with something, a background buzz in the back of your head that, if you pay attention to it, might possibly drive you mad.

On top of that, everyone was determined to like me. I ran the rec room and soon knew the names of just about every individual on the ship, all of whom wanted a piece of the new bartender.

Thank God for the sensible ones like Bones and Uhura. Bones would settle in at the bar and scare off everyone with a searing glare or Uhura would steal me away to areas of the ship that were quieter, nooks and crannies that had character and personality.

Of course, that's not to say I didn't like living on the _Enterprise_ or that I wanted to go home. It was just new, very new and more than a little unsettling.

* * *

><p>I was wiping glasses and listening to a lovesick ensign extol the virtues of his fair maiden (I was pretty sure she didn't know he existed and he liked it that way) when the captain said <em>"Yellow alert, yellow alert"<em> over the comm and I locked down the rec room from the bar as per policy. Anyone who wanted in would have to buzz and show that they were really, well, them.

And then I didn't think anything more of it. We went to yellow alert at least once a week and that was excluding the drills. Yellow alert could be anything from mild turbulence due to an asteroid field or (heaven forbid) we were in a standoff with Klingons. Of course, the second option didn't occur to me.

Not until the Klingons started banging on the rec room door and the ensign fumbled about for a weapon, coming up with a stool.

I was unimpressed.

Which was uncharitable of me, but sadly true.

I slipped my small phaser into the waistband of my pants at the small of my back and quickly dialled up the comm programmed discreetly into the bar. I didn't call the bridge, figuring that was the first place the Klingons would try and take.

"Scotty?" I asked quietly, keeping my voice low.

"Hey lassie, got problems up top?" the engineer replied in the same tone of voice.

"Not yet but they're knocking on the door pretty hard," I reported, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.

"All right lassie, let me get in contact with the capt'n. We're not exactly sure what's going on ourselves. Hide yourself away somewhere safe and if they do catch up with ye, don't resist. I'll be back in a bit."

I scanned the room and realized I'd have to get someone to make me a bolt hole because there was literally nowhere to hide in the room.

Anywhere.

Not even in the ceiling tiles the way I had when I was seventeen and trying to avoid the principal of my high school.

And now the ensign was standing shuddering beside me, clearly terrified and I remembered this was his first stint on the _Enterprise_ too.

But the Klingons didn't seem too interested in the rec room and I yanked him behind the bar before the Klingons spotted us. They moved on quickly and soon the captain gave the all clear.

* * *

><p>And I waited for the first knowledgeable person to trickle into the rec room at the end of their shift. Chekov could be easily persuaded to tell the gist of the story (kid didn't seem to understand the concept of censoring for civilians and I prayed he never would) but Uhura would tell me the emotional side and if I really wanted to know exactly what happened, I'd ask Spock or Sulu. The captain would just say they'd looked after the problem and it was nothing for me to worry about.<p>

Getting the truth isn't a simple matter. Everyone has a bias, everyone has details they omit and sometimes the smallest thing is of the biggest help in looking after people who need a boost.

So I picked brains all night, sketching together the picture of a civilian passenger ship cornered by Klingons. Captain Kirk had beamed over in an away team to try and retake the passenger shuttle before all the civilians died. A few security officers had gotten banged up and the captain was walking around with a blooming purplish black eye.

I hadn't seen the captain though, not until I dimmed the rec room lights in an attempt to urge everyone to head to bed. After an encounter like this, you could see the rough edges, feel the tension still humming under the surface, just in case the enemy decided to come back. It was working but I didn't bother clearing everything up.

My last client had yet to come in.

And sure enough, one minute he wasn't there, the next he was sitting in the darkest corner, blond hair barely glinting, shoulders slumped in exhaustion and weighed down by responsibility.

I slid a whisky down the bar and waited patiently, prepared to suss out his mood.

Dull blue eyes glanced up at me and I realized a child must have died. That would be why Bones hadn't come in, patching everyone up down to the last paper cut in an attempt to cover McCoy's perceived failure.

"Too late," Captain Kirk sighed.

No, that was wrong. Jim Kirk sighed. The captain had been left on the bridge.

"If the _Enterprise_ had been travelling at warp six instead of five, she'd still be alive." He slugged back the whisky and I floundered just a bit. Where was Spock when you needed him? Probably still up on the bridge, volunteering for second bridge shift. The only person who took a child's death harder than the captain was Spock.

I listened. That was all I could do. Anything else would ring hollow.

"You saw Klingons today, didn't you? Shouldn't have let it happen." He stared up at me with sad puppy eyes.

Oh, enough. That was ridiculous.

Clearly my face said as much because a small smile tipped up the corners of Kirk's mouth.

"Right, right, I'm being stupid. You're a big girl. But you're not allowed to end up dead."

I raised an eyebrow. "Only if you promise not to take on the blame for things you could not possibly have known about."

He stared at me. "I could order you to stay out of trouble."

I snorted a laugh and picked up another glass, polishing it to a beautiful sheen. Captain or no, Starfleet employee or no, nobody ordered me to stop living life and that life included _Enterprise_'s hazards.

"You're just like everyone else on this ship," Kirk grumbled.

I shot him a pointed stare and plucked the whisky tumbler from in front of him. Takes one to know one and a certain captain was looking brighter already so I washed his glass and ignored his hopeful glance at my prized bottle of fine Romulan ale.

That was for special occasions, not half-drunk captains on Tuesday nights.

He looked like he wanted to sulk but didn't dare and I rolled my eyes, pulling out a bottle of whisky. "Take this up to Dr. McCoy and make sure he gets to bed tonight," I ordered gently. "And don't drink it all tonight."

The best cure for a melancholy Jim Kirk was to refocus him on an easily solved problem and sure enough, he soon vanished from the bar as quickly as he came.

* * *

><p>The next morning, there was an empty whisky bottle sitting on my bar and I scowled at it, plucking a note from under the bottle. All it said was 'thanks,' and I realized suddenly that the <em>Enterprise<em> felt just a little more familiar around me, the hum of machinery more like the soothing chatter of traffic outside my old bar than a teeth-gritting annoyance.


	7. Bar Hunting

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural.

* * *

><p>I was happily cleaning up the <em>Enterprise<em> bar, occasionally glancing out the big window at the bustling Earth space dock as I wiped up counters and put away glasses when a very morose individual slumped down on a bar stool.

I raised a curious eyebrow. Almost everyone else had practically danced away from the ship as soon as Captain Kirk said 'off-duty.' _Los Angeles_ was in dock as well and the crews had one heck of a wild party planned, so why was Montgomery Scott practically sulking at my on-ship bar?

Quietly pulling out this week's favourite beer, I filled a big glass beer mug to the top with a deft twist of my wrist.

"Draft beer. You're a fine lass, Mandy-girl," Scotty sighed as he slurped up foam. I grinned at the affectionate nickname and leaned forward, propping elbows on the bar. Scotty couldn't keep his mouth shut to save his life. Other people's lives definitely, but not his. He'd spill the whole story in less than five minutes.

"They're going to a _club_," he muttered and I shrugged. "When we got shore leave before, we could go to your bar. But now there's a lack of decent places to find good beer and no offence to the grand lady, her bar or her excellent bartender, a man likes to land his feet on a solid wood floor, smell the smoke from cigarettes and watch a game without hearing the ping of some stupid comm interrupting ye."

"Scotland's got a lack of those places?" I asked in mild surprise. You'd think that Scotty could just hop the pond and find a nice rustic pub to haunt where the accents ran stronger than the beer.

"Aye but then I'm too far away from this love," he gestured to the ship around him, "and the crew. I don't want to think about the trouble capt'n would put her through if he couldn't wait for me to get back from sitting on me arse." Scotty sighed morosely. "No way in hell I'm going to some shiny noisy club full of crazy hormonal man-hunting women every shore leave. Present company excluded," he tacked on hastily.

I snickered and put some thought into the problem. The older crew members were up for 'shiny noisy clubs' every now and then but Scotty had a very valid point. They needed a new haunt planet-side otherwise they'd all go stir-crazy and have to start seeing Starfleet psychologists.

That one memorable encounter with the Starfleet shrink who had made a surprise visit to the _Enterprise_ was enough to convince me I needed to take action.

Swiping Scotty's mug from the bar and pitching it into the sink with determination, I hung up my apron. "Come with me," I ordered briskly. "We're going scouting." Without giving the engineer time for anything other than a surprised squawk, I dragged him down to the transporter pad. "Chop chop," I clapped my hands and flapped them at the transporter console.

Getting into the spirit of things, Scotty warmed up the pad and saluted smartly. "Where are we going, commander?"

"'Frisco, where else?"

* * *

><p>I blinked in the warm summer sun, enjoying the even, familiar heat of Earth's sun. In my short time on the<em> Enterprise<em>, I had visited many different planets on shore leave, but none of them had a star that felt quite like the sun. Shaking myself loose from my thoughts, I headed over to the long-term parking area where my 1967 Camaro was currently housed (and heaven help Starfleet if I found out she'd been joy-ridden, broken into, dinged or scratched).

"In the car, Mr. Scott," I said briskly, enjoying the gob-smacked expression on his face.

"Lass, just when I didnae think ye could have any more surprises up your sleeve," he muttered, stepping into the low-slung muscle car. Five minutes later, we were out on the streets and I was revelling in the healthy grumble of a powerful engine. Starfleet had been idling the engine once a month like they promised to. "She's like the _Enterprise_ in miniature," Scotty marvelled and I practically glowed. Montgomery Scott's highest compliment had just been paid to my car.

We pulled up outside of a small, unmarked establishment just outside of downtown 'Frisco, a hop, skip and a jump away from the ship yards. I crossed my fingers as I pushed open the weather-beaten door. The last time I had been in here, Harry had pitched me and my college buddies out for making fun of his eccentricities.

Contrary to outer appearances, the interior was surprisingly clean and comfortable, a little more upscale than my old bar but not enough to feel pretentious or stiff. The booths didn't have patches on them like mine had but they were worn around the corners and welcoming. The bar wasn't dinged or nicked, but it did have scratches from wear and tear, thousands of mugs, bottles and cans leaving their marks. The liquor lined up behind the bar was good stuff and squeaky clean but the shelf wasn't snazzy and backlit.

Scotty seemed to be feeling out the atmosphere as quiet rock played in the background – not too soft, not too hard and not too loud. Harry had always been good at finding the happy medium. Right now, in the middle of the afternoon there was no one in the bar and I was pretty sure it wasn't open.

"I'm not open yet!" a hoarse voice bellowed from the back.

"I know!" I shouted back.

"YOU!"

A tall, portly man in his early sixties stumped out to the bar, glaring at me. I gave my best innocent grin and shrugged. "I have a beer connoisseur for you to meet."

Harry drew every inch of his 6'1 frame up to bristle angrily at me, faded blue eyes blazing at me. "The last time you said something like that, your friend drank all of my best port and then had the gall to tell me he'd tasted better uptown!"

"In my defence, I was young, stupid and he was an idiot?" I clapped Scotty companionably on the shoulder. "Harry, this is a man who understands. Try me. Give him one beer and if he doesn't meet expectations, you can ban me from ever coming near your bar again."

Harry continued to scowl, unappeased. "From what I hear you're star-hopping. Barring you wouldn't be much of a punishment, now would it?"

"Come on," I wheedled.

"Is that a true Guinness?" Scotty asked suddenly, squinting at the beer tap with a jaundiced eye. No true beer-lover liked the knockoff brands that had sprung up, concocted in a science lab so it would remain stable through interstellar transit. Some even said they were developing a new thing called synthenol – all the effects of alcohol, none of the drunkenness.

A true bartender scorned that whole principle. It allowed people to forgo the fine taste alcohol could provide and skip right to the stupidity that was a thoroughly smashed individual.

But I digress. Back to the Guinness.

Harry stiffened and sniffed.

"Of course."

"Without the artificial preservatives and stabilizers?"

"Naturally."

Scotty parked himself on a stool, challenging Harry. "Pour me a glass. I'm picky about me beer."

* * *

><p>Predictably, Scotty and Harry got along like a house on fire after that. When the captain called Scotty on the communicator, the enthusiastic engineer called Captain Kirk down to the Foxes' Den. Soon the bar was buzzing quietly with <em>Enterprise<em> crew members and Harry was blinking at the sight of so many quasi-famous people.

I leaned against the bar, taking a rare opportunity to be a customer instead of a bartender. "Fun bunch, aren't they?" I asked Harry as he whipped up drinks for Jo and Uhura. Somehow, the _Impala_ crew had showed up as well as I had anticipated. These days, the two crews were nearly inseparable when they had identical shore leave.

"You're forgiven for the idiots back in college," the chuckling man said, still amused at a lengthy, not-very-funny Russian joke Chekov had laboriously told. "These kids can show up any time they want. Yeah Kirk, I'm coming, hold your horses!"

I sat back, relaxed and happy. Harry had years of experience and wisdom on me, a compassionate nature and a wicked sense of humour. Our little group of star ship crews could show up here any time they needed it.

"Mandy-girl!" Scotty called across the bar, his mouth full of something or other. "Darlin', I hate to say it but Harry here has an edge over you!" The whole bar ground to a halt and I frowned.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, mildly defensive for some reason.

"He makes the best sandwiches!"


	8. Let Them Eat Cake

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural

* * *

><p>"It's like you said," Sam slurred happily, "revenge is a dish best served cold."<p>

I raised a curious eyebrow. "I thought the Klingons said that."

"They did," he nodded knowledgeably, "but I'm sure I've heard you say it a time or two. You're a smart one."

I swallowed an inappropriate giggle and slid another beer down the bar. Commander Sam Winchester was on leave and in the mood to get thoroughly drunk. The _Enterprise_'s rec room was crammed, the mood more like that of a club than the usual subdued, calming atmosphere.

I was actually busy as all get out and wishing for an assistant but listening to straight-laced Sam let loose was hilarious.

"Who are we getting revenge on?" I asked with a grin.

"Dean. And Jim." Sam nodded very seriously, tossing back another drink.

"Why?"

Sam shot me a look that suggested I was thinking like an idiot. "Because they _ate_ my experiment."

This time I was a little worried – Sam had been working on something that looked and smelled just like chocolate but apparently was laced with lethal radiation.

"Yeah," he continued without concern. "The bastards _ate_ my cupcake experiment. I was working on figuring out why chocolate zucchini cake tastes so good. It was a very seri-serioush experiment. And Dean put Nair in my shampoo when I was eight. And Jim stole my PADD and locked the wallpaper so I can't change it. I don't want to see his kissh-y face every time I turn it on."

I couldn't help myself. I laughed. Sam squinted up at me from where he was slumped against the bar. "It's not funny."

"It's a little funny." I spun the rec room's volume dial on my master sound console down again just enough that I could hear myself think. Everyone loved to leave the uniforms in their quarters and blast the tunes but for me half the fun was making sure the great party didn't spiral into stupidity. "What revenge are you planning?"

Sam grinned drunkenly. "I'm going to beat them."

I slid a Purple Nurple down the bar and leaned in close to hear Sam's muttering. "After all, they're short. And stupid."

"What did you say, Sammy?" Dean asked loudly, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders. He and Jim were having a grand old time carousing, especially since Pike had promised to keep the rest of the admirals off their backs for two days.

"You're short. And stupid." Sam giggled.

Dean sobered briefly. "Dude, you're drunk."

"Yeah. So?"

Jim grinned, banging into the Winchesters as he waved for another drink. "Sam's drunk, that's great! Come on Sam, we'll have a great time!"

The trio of friends stumbled off and I raised my eyebrows but forgot all about it as the crush of crew members looking for booze pressed up against the bar again.

* * *

><p>When four am rolled around, almost everyone had gone to bed. I was picking up the room with the help of a few cleaning units when I spotted a very drunk Sam Winchester in the corner, muttering away maliciously.<p>

"Sam?" I asked, more than a little curious. I didn't know where he had been but somewhere he'd dug up what looked like a cross between a mad scientist's lab and most of a kitchen, complete with flour and sugar. To top it off, he'd dragged the whole thing up to the rec room instead of utilizing the labs Spock had given him the codes to.

"Jim'n'Dean watch the labs," Sam muttered, still mostly drunk. "Gotta be sh-neaky," he slurred as he poured various liquids into various solids, his movements rock steady (impressive considering he was smashed). I slid into the seat across the table from him, propped my elbows on the table and watched.

They were clearly cupcakes. I watched the whole procedure from step one and couldn't find anything wrong with them until the very end as I greased the muffin tins for him. The batter was smooth and smelled sweet, so I snuck a taste. Clearly he'd missed his calling as a Starfleet officer. It was damn good cupcake material.

Sam's mad scientist apparatus had just finished bubbling and he rather gleefully dumped the test tube's clear, odourless contents into the batter.

"What will that do?" I asked.

Sam giggled evilly and I made a mental note – give the man enough alcohol and Sam Winchester became all sorts of fun as long as you weren't on his shit list.

I helped. I'll admit it. I helped him bake and then frosted them when it became clear that Sam was crashing and fast. When the yummy-looking blue and white cupcakes with pretty silver sprinkles were finished, Sam was snoring soundly in the corner of the booth.

I could have left him. Could have let someone find him and possibly blow the operation. But where's the fun in that?

I cleaned up the mess, hid all evidence and left the plate of cupcakes sitting beside Sam, who had slid down to sleep on the bench seat. I couldn't lift the man so he'd have to fend for himself.

Honestly, I couldn't wait for the shit to hit the fan.

* * *

><p>I was up around five that evening, tending the bar by six. Sam had stumbled out of the rec room sometime during that period because he wasn't in the rec room when I went on duty. To my surprise, the cupcakes were still in the rec room, a neat little card proclaiming that the treats were for the captains only. I counted the cupcakes quickly and came to the conclusion that all of them were there.<p>

I hadn't missed any of the action.

Word circulates like wildfire on a star ship. The captains showed up a bare five minutes later, snatching up a cupcake each with the efficiency they usually applied to a combat situation. I watched in amusement as two, five, seven cupcakes vanished inside of a minute.

Then I waited with anticipation.

Dean blinked. Burped. Nothing happened.

"Anyone else want one?" he offered generously and I was left deflated at the anticlimactic results as a young ensign scampered over.

Come on Sam, I didn't stick around to help a drunken first officer make cupcakes at four in the morning just to watch your brother stuff his face.

Ten minutes ticked by, then fifteen and I was going to give up. Absolutely nothing was happening. Then Dean absently scratched at his head and froze.

Lifting a hand away from his head, he stared at his hand. Short hairs clung to his fingers as Jim gaped in horror, hands shooting to his own pretty golden locks.

"SAM!" Dean roared as he shook a handful of hair into the recycler. The ensign who had been happily munching on cupcakes suddenly looked as if someone had kicked his puppy – or in this case, his carefully groomed and gelled hair.

Oh this was great. This was beautiful. Drunk Sammy cupcakes. I was hard-pressed to keep a straight face and tripped the little camera installed in the wall to keep tabs on drunk young crew members. I'd make a killing off the recordings.

A hung-over Sam Winchester appeared in the rec room door. "You bellowed, Dean?"

"Sam, what the _hell_ did you put in those damn cupcakes? This is for the Nair thing when we were kids, weren't we? I said I was sorry!" Dean glowered as his hair began actively falling out, followed by his eyebrows and I choked back a snigger.

Sam blinked and rubbed his temples, adorably confused and clearly suffering from a pounding headache. "I don't remember making any cupcakes last night. Check the security videos?"

I couldn't hide the grin, so I dropped to the floor, presumably to pick up a dropped corkscrew. I'd been a prankster. I knew how to mess with the _Enterprise_'s videos to fudge up the recordings just enough so they didn't know who'd done what in the low-security rec room.

Judging from the stream of virulent curses that followed, they came to the same conclusion. By the time I managed to control my laughter enough to stand up again, the captains were storming out and the ensign was mournfully gathering up his shoulder-length hair.

Sam sat at the bar, very confused. "I don't know what they're talking about. Really, I don't."

I grinned.

"Need a drink?"


	9. A Matter of Debate

I do not own Star Trek 2009 or Supernatural.

* * *

><p>"You can't have her!"<p>

"I've got orders from Pike, it's all perfectly legit. Calm down, she'll be back in a week."

"And if she's not?"

"You'll know she likes the _Impala_ better than the _Enterprise._"

There was a pause in which I snickered. Captains Kirk and Winchester, at it again.

"There is no possible way in heaven or hell she would like your little tuna can better than my awesome ship."

"Tuna can!" The doors to the rec room slid open as Captain Winchester sputtered in indignation. "Better a little tuna can than a blimp!"

Captain Kirk puffed his chest out. "Blimps are more useful than tuna cans."

"The hell they are! Tuna cans carry food!"

"Blimps can carry tuna cans _and _food _and_ booze _and_ girls."

I rolled my eyes in exasperation and set down their usual drinks with a little bit of a clink, just enough to break off the stupid argument. "Gentlemen," I greeted calmly.

Jim huffed and tossed back his beer with a growl. With an answering smirk, Dean slid a Starfleet Command PADD across the bar top. "You're coming with me to the _Impala_ for a week," he announced cheerfully.

"You think so, do you?" I replied noncommittally, wondering what this was all about. "Can I have any more details or am I just getting kidnapped right off the bat?"

Dean fidgeted on his seat, immediately remembering that I was indeed a human being, not a toy to be shared (translation: fought over) with Jim. "We've got a very prickly diplomat to please. He likes fine alcohol and he says he won't attend these meetings unless we have a decent bartender. I said I knew just the girl for the job and thought my problem was solved. Until Jim here refused to share." He shot his friend an irritated glance.

I shrugged. "If I can help out, I will. Captain Kirk, we are in dry dock for the next few weeks and you dismissed most of the crew. I've got nothing else on the go."

Jim didn't look happy about it. "The last member of my crew that visited the _Impala_ didn't come back. How is that ensign working out, by the way?"

"Excellent, thanks. And I can't help it if people recognize the awesome that is the _Impala_." Dean smirked until Jim kicked his knee and I rolled my eyes yet again, more than a little tempted to scold them.

"Captain Winchester," I began in serious tones, trying to bring them back to the issue at hand instead of noogies and punches. "Dean, I'll come over to the _Impala_ but you don't have room for a bar, remember? I'll be in the way. So at the end of this, I'm definitely coming back to the _Enterprise_."

Jim grinned and Dean almost pouted as I passed them their drinks. "So no gloating from you," I ordered, pointing at the _Enterprise_'s captain, "and I promise to make sure your diplomat is happier than a clam," I finished, causing Dean to brighten considerably.

* * *

><p>Ten hours later I was cursing that promise fluently in several alien languages (the salty vocabulary courtesy of the <em>Enterprise<em>'s colourful crew). This diplomat didn't like alcohol, he just fancied himself a connoisseur because it made him look smarter than he really was.

I could have told him he needed more than just an encyclopaedic knowledge of booze to appear intelligent. The man was dumber than a post. Admittedly he had a clever tongue, which was probably how he wriggled his way into his current position, but jeez.

I poured him a whiskey on the rocks and hoped that would be enough.

It wasn't. Carl Reddecker tasted my good whisky and promptly sneered in disdain. "It's not smooth enough," he complained.

I was tempted to throw my wet, dirty bar rag in his pasty, almost-handsome face. The _Impala_ crew was hovering anxiously though so I fisted my hand in said rag and smiled professionally, feeling my teeth creak with the effort. "My apologies."

"Apologies mean nothing in my world!" Reddecker pronounced arrogantly and I almost screamed in frustration, tempted to pull my hair out. If this was par for the course on the _Impala_ when it came to diplomats, no wonder Dean hated them with a passion. He slammed the glass down on my makeshift bar and stalked out.

"You're a jackass with the taste discernment of an over-fed cow suffering from a scalded tongue," I muttered nastily under my breath.

"Thinking about going back to the _Enterprise_?" Dean asked, half-joking and I jumped.

"Maybe. But then I'd be leaving you in the lurch. He's an ass." Dean's amusement faded and I shrugged. "Want me to drug his drink?"

It was the right note, as it caused Dean to throw his head back and laugh. "Not yet."

I made myself a new promise. I wouldn't air my exasperation to the captain. Dean didn't need to be distracted. That promise was one well made. As I stopped wallowing in self-pity, I noticed that Reddecker was influencing the whole crew. People were walking around quickly but with their heads down, frowns were evident and alpha shift was almost nonexistent. Sam was probably sitting on them so they didn't do anything stupid. I had head about their many shenanigans but this particular treaty had to go through or an entire planet of people would go hungry for months. There was no room for error.

So I served drinks and listened and absorbed emotions and did my job.

Right up until the jackass walked into my bar (even if it was temporarily) and I watched as the entire room emptied in minutes.

Not good.

The crew couldn't be allowed to feel hunted on their own ship.

I went through a rather torturous two hours of serving the diplomat until he left and Dean slunk back in. He looked like a man ready to bang his head off the plastic bar so I moved quickly to intercept, sliding a tall cold draft beer his way. No hard alcohol for the captain, not when the ship was out and active.

"You're a saint, Amanda," Dean muttered, sucking back an inch or two of foam and golden liquid.

I was tempted to ask him what he was going to do about the problem but knew that people didn't visit bartenders to get pumped for information. I trusted him to come up with a solution and hopefully it'd be sooner rather than later.

I hoped he would talk. It looked like he needed it. But I realized too late that my earlier mini-venting comment about Reddecker had made me into one of Captain Winchester's crew and that meant I was under Dean's protection.

I kicked myself. Hard. I was a professional and I had fallen down on my job. Bartenders didn't let their emotions negatively affect anyone they might serve until they were off the clock. Still, despite my best wheedling and poking, Dean stayed clammed up. He left an hour or so later and almost immediately after that, Castiel wandered in.

I pounced.

Squeezing information out of Cas wasn't hard, which is a rather unjust statement. Castiel can keep his mouth shut tighter than Dean or Sam if he thinks there's cause but I know that Cas trusts me. As such, he had no problem explaining how Sam's hands were tied by the very rude diplomat and the whole mess would be solved if only Reddecker didn't show up for the resumption of negotiation tomorrow morning.

A very bad, bad thought prickled at the back of my mind.

Illegal, even.

I let the idea grow, turned it over several times.

And decided I didn't give a damn.

When Reddecker returned for a second round of drinks, complaining that no one respected him and how he couldn't even get a good whisky on this tub, I smiled professionally and poured him a single glass of my finest vintage, the stuff that I only let true connoisseurs touch.

Sacrifices were necessary.

A quick twist of the wrist, the gurgle of a light green liquid, a slotted spoon and a square of sugar went to a great cause. Scotty and Bobby would probably cry when they found out I'd given it all away to this douche but Reddecker would be very seriously drunk inside of oh, half an hour.

* * *

><p>When I went on shift the next evening, I immediately had to deal with a very hung-over Reddecker. "Dr. Harvelle said it's an infirmary rule that she doesn't deal with hangovers," he muttered with his hands shading his eyes, "but she suggested you might have a remedy.j And can you turn down the lights?"<p>

Oh shit.

I had forgotten about Ellen, the best diagnostician in Starfleet and possibly the Federation. She'd pick up the high-octane substance.

With swift motions that would have betrayed my nervousness had Reddecker known me, I whipped up a glass of rather noxious-looking liquid. "My own secret mix. See if that helps," I offered courteously. Apparently it did, because Reddecker perked up just in time to see Sam striding in.

"Ambassador, your shuttle is waiting to take you back to Starbase 4. We managed to come to terms while you were…ill." Sam was almost obscenely cheerful at the idea of escorting the diplomat off his ship and Reddecker didn't look too disappointed either, following the tall officer out of the rec room immediately.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, Ellen was sitting at my bar, swirling beer around in her glass. "So, do you incapacitate everyone who ticks you off with absinthe?"<p>

I forced myself to keep on drying glasses calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," she replied with a knowing grin.

I resisted the urge to crawl under the bar.

Ellen looked up as my cheeks flushed red. "Thanks," she said in low tones. I shrugged.

"I'll never do it again."

"Sure you won't."

"Never ever to a crew member."

"That, I believe."

* * *

><p>I scooted back to the <em>Enterprise<em> twelve hours later with a deeper, slightly scary understanding of how far a person can go for family.


End file.
